


Rest Hold

by annchi



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:27:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annchi/pseuds/annchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This one was a hugger."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rest Hold

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this one was, you'll never guess, _hugs_.
> 
> Just something short to celebrate having a working computer again.

"This one was a hugger."

"I noticed that." A pause, and he imagined Finch at his desk, adjusting his glasses or looking off into an amusing middle-distance. "Is that a bad thing, Mr. Reese? It must be nice to know your efforts are appreciated."

"Our efforts, Harold." The correction was automatic. John hated it when Finch left himself out of the equation.

"Thank you, but that doesn't answer my question."

John tapped his earpiece to mute the call and looked around. The hallway was quiet but that would change in a minute or two when court let out. Too many chances that he would run into a familiar face here. Time to leave.

At least this one had been simple. Cheating spouse (their number) about to lose custody of his son plots with his girlfriend to kidnap the child and flee the country. He was an SOB but not the murdering kind, too bad for him the girlfriend was. She was ruthless, but fortunately for the ex-wife she was also an amateur and too greedy which, combined with the innate impatience of the proto-criminal, gave them a perfect storm of ineptitude that was easy to see through and foil once Finch stepped in to empty the right accounts. Thus John had saved their number's wife and returned the child to her and her lawyer just minutes ago. 

And she had hugged him. 

John was as pleased as any of them that things had turned out okay, with everyone who should be safe, safe, and those who deserved to be punished delivered into the hands of detectives they trusted, but the immediate aftermath always made him uncomfortable. It was such a cliché. _We're so grateful. Thank you, thank you. I don't know what I would have done. If there's ever anything I can do to repay you. Please don't hesitate. Please._ And the hugs. Some people seemed compelled to touch him after the danger passed. Like they were claiming him, and that wasn't quite right. John belonged to no one.

"Mr. Reese?" 

Almost no one. 

"I'm on my way out, Harold. Don't want to run into any more fans."

"Is everything alright?"

No. For one thing, John was tired. The case had been simple but had involved a lot of literal legwork, and his joints ached from running to be there in time. He wanted to tap the earpiece again, put the damn thing in his pocket and close the connection but that would be rude, and Finch hated rudeness.

"All fine. Ellis and Jones are in custody and Jeremy's back with his mom. Nothing more for us to do on this one. Do you need me to come in?"

John could hear Finch breathing softly while he decided what to say. He knew that despite what Finch said about the dangers of predictability, Finch craved the closure of their post-case routine and wanted John there, in the Library, to talk through the day's events while he pulled photos and background from the board to file god knew where.

"No, no," Finch said at last. "I'll see you tomorrow. Get some rest."

The disappointment in Finch's voice was palpable. John fought the urge to call him back, or forgo the call and just show up at the Library like nothing had happened, and let momentum carry him home. 

*

A few days and one case later, John was still thinking about the hugs. Or, the tendency of some of their clients -- the ones who ever caught sight of him, that was -- to touch out of gratitude, versus those that gave him a frightened nod of acknowledgement, or ran from him outright. He knew which he preferred: the huggers were honest and open, the very definition of citizens, but they seemed naive to him. More likely than not that naivety was part of what put them in danger in the first place, and it was a paradox that haunted him sometimes, that the same weakness that made them defensible was also an unhealthy burden they would be better off without. 

Wary gratitude was something he understood better: a nod, a simple thank-you, a final parting of the ways. 

John said as much to Finch, who didn't seem surprised. "It's your own modus operandi, Mr. Reese," he said. 

"But I bet you're a hugger, right Finch?" 

He meant to lighten the mood but Finch didn't reciprocate with one of his tiny smiles. Finch didn't say much for the rest of the day, something that John only registered later when he was on his back in the dark trying to sleep.

What did that mean, that Finch was a hugger? _Was_ being the operable word. 

John thought about Grace. She was definitely a hugger, and all too naive. Opened the door wide when he flashed his stolen detective's badge, let him into her place with no fuss, turned her back on him and answered personal questions readily. John cringed; she was a sitting duck. He wondered if Finch understood just how vulnerable Grace was. The locks on her doors were at least thirty years old. The windows let in lots of light but were a security disaster waiting to happen. When she saw him out he never even heard the deadbolt slide home. 

Home.

Grace was an artist. Worked from home. Probably kissed Harold goodbye every morning while they were together, put her arms around him every night when he came home. 

Four years of happiness, Finch told him. 

Four years of contact with someone he loved, and now?

*

John didn't plan it, exactly. One day a few weeks later it just happened, and it felt right.

And Harold didn't seem to mind. Quite the contrary. After he got past the inevitable blushing and frank incredulity it was obvious that he appreciated the new ritual. They both did.

*

"So her grandson saw the error of his ways?"

John nodded. "He'll be inside for three years, minimum. Plenty of time to learn to respect his elders."

"Well done, Mr. Reese. I have to say I was impressed by Mrs. Javier. She loves Michael, but that didn't stop her from turning him in when she found out he was responsible. Too bad he's her only living relative."

"She's tough, Finch, and she's got friends in the building. She'll be okay."

The sun was dying behind the blinds and John squinted and yawned at it when he got up to leave. This case had been a tedious one. Long hours trying to understand all the players, waiting to make sense of who would want to hurt Luna Javier. 

Things had turned out fine, though. The old lady had been clear-eyed and steady when he said goodbye.

Ah. John smiled and turned around.

"Finch? I almost forgot." He moved into Finch's space and put both arms around him, then waited until the other man relaxed against him before he stroked up and down his back in a way that was careful but unmistakably affectionate. 

They were usually gentle hugs. A boisterous metro driver called Antonio had actually lifted John off the ground before he could get away, but of course John hadn't done that to Finch. So he improvised, sometimes. But he passed on every one.

"From Mrs. Javier?" Finch mumbled. John could feel his smile against his collarbone.

"Yup." John waited for two, then three steady breaths, and savored the happy calm he felt when they rested in each other before he pulled back to kiss Finch soundly on the cheek. "And that."

Finch smiled, gentle and bright, and squeezed John's shoulder. "A job very well done then, John. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Harold."

It might sound like a cliché, might mean he was naive, but John was starting to prefer the huggers.


End file.
